Lead Me
by Freya Ishtar
Summary: Voldemort—no longer in need of his werewolf army after the War is won, and with a new weapon at his disposal—enacts a 'kill-on-sight' law. A secret about her heritage that came to light during the altercation at Malfoy Manor forces Hermione to run and hide, same as the werewolves. Soon, she finds herself relying on Fenrir Greyback, and for more than just survival. SPORADIC UPDATES
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:**

**1) **Post-War AU. Canon-divergent from when the Snatchers found the Golden Trio.

**2)** Updates will be sporadic (my break aside). Chapter lengths will vary (some may be over 5k words long, some may not break 2k).

**3)** This story contains a backstory element I came up with that has also appeared in my Fenmione/Dramione fic _Wolf's Blood_ in regard to Fenrir's activity and behavior during the War, as well as one (that is not solely mine, but is a theory quite few people in the fandom believe) about Hermione's heritage that appears in the majority of my Hermione-werewolf fics.

**CANON DATE REFERENCE:** The Skirmish at Malfoy Manor occurs roughly around Easter, 1998 (which was 12th of April), making it approximately 3 weeks between then and the Battle of Hogwarts (2nd of May).

* * *

**Fenrir Greyback Fancast: **Jason Momoa

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own _Harry Potter_, or any affiliated characters and make no profit—in any form—from the creation of this work.

* * *

**Chapter One**

It had happened while they were shagging. As she felt it, as she became aware of what she was doing, she understood . . . .

All this time, she'd still had some little kernel of doubt buried in the back of her thoughts. Some tiny voice letting out muted screams that it wasn't true. She wasn't one of them, she couldn't be. That the last two months and three weeks hadn't happened. She was a human. She was a Muggle-born. She was _not _a girl descended from werewolves. She did _not_ have wolf's blood coursing through her veins.

She did_ not_ feel driven by the same instincts that they drove them, only manifesting in her life in different ways because of her conditioning by the Muggle—and later the Wizarding—world.

Yet, there was this . . . .

As he'd shifted back to sit on his heels and pulled her with him, straddling his lap. As his hands clamped tight over her hips, rocking her against him. As she'd let her head tip back and her eyes drift closed at the blissful sensation of an orgasm sweeping through her . . . .

Everything crashed down over her in that moment, and not in a good way.

Pulling back, that sweet feeling horribly cut short, she stared up at him with wide, frightened eyes. She could feel the wetness on her lips, could taste the bittersweet copper on her tongue.

As that orgasm had swept through her, Hermione had snapped her head forward again and sank her teeth into Fenrir's pectoral muscle.

Being who and what he was, the pain hadn't affected him in what she'd consider a normal way. He'd choked out a delighted gasp and then a breath hissed from between clenched teeth as he tightened his hold on her.

It was that moment. It was how perfect it had felt, in the quiet of night beside the roaring fire. The two of them alone in the forest. The feel of his bare skin pressed to hers as those amber eyes of his had held hers in _that _look . . . .

Their limbs wrapped around one another as they pushed each other over the edge. Somehow, in that moment, biting him—biting him hard enough to draw blood—had seemed a perfectly logical, rational, _natural _thought.

As she pulled back to stare up at him he froze, already aware she was panicking over what she'd just done. He knew she'd hate it if he pointed out how seeing her like this—her chestnut eyes huge and his blood dripping from her lips—only made him want to throw her down and keep going.

Holding back a growl, he slid his hands up from her hips to cup her face. "It's okay."

But those eyes, the ones he was so sure would somehow be the death of him, started to well up as she gaped at him. "No . . . no. It's not. It's not okay, don't make this _normal_, please!"

A heavy sigh rumbling out of him, he carefully plucked her off of him, extracting himself, and pulled across his lap. Cradling her petite frame against his, he made gentle cooing noises—she imagined these were the sort of sounds wolves made to soothe anxious pups.

"That's what you're most scared of, isn't it? Not what you did, but the feeling that it _could _be normal?"

"Shut up," she said, sniffling, though her tears garbled her words a bit. "Don't make this make sense." Yet, even as she half-yelled at him, she curled her arms around his as he held her and ducked her head beneath his chin.

He held in a chuckle—no, no, she wouldn't appreciate him laughing just now. "I can smell your fear, you know. You keep telling yourself that if this isn't normal, if this isn't actually _you_, maybe you can go back to your old life."

"I know it's stupid."

Fenrir made another soothing noise as he rubbed one of his large, rough palms over her back in gentle circles. "No, not stupid. Wholly unrealistic, perhaps, but not stupid."

"That's not very helpful."

"More helpful than placating your little pity-party, Sweetness."

Hermione knew he was right about that. She didn't want him to be right, but that didn't change the fact that he _was_. "I know it's probably really shit of me to be so afraid when this is what you are, but it makes me feel like everything will change if I accept it about myself."

There was more to it than that. He was perfectly aware she just didn't want to say it. That if she accepted her heritage completely rather than just in theory, she'd embrace it. She'd want it. She might actually want him to bite her. She'd have to confront _everything_ that had happened.

Okay, perhaps this was a good moment for placation, he decided. Just a _little_, though—he'd mix it in with the hard truth.

Tightening his hold on her, he let out another heavy, rumbling sigh as he said, "It won't. It feels that way because it'll change how you see yourself."

She let her eyes drift closed. Listening to the steady, thundering beat of his heart beneath her ear, feeling the warm press of his chest against her cheek, she reminded herself that from the moment she'd first heard his whispered words in her ear, some part of her had known the truth.

Yet it hadn't prepared her for anything that followed.

* * *

**_Near-Three Months Earlier_**

He had known the moment he saw her . . . the moment he was close enough to smell her. He knew the girl who called herself Penelope Clearwater had wolf's blood. The Dark Lord was a shit . . . well, more so than usual. Only letting him eat _people_. Fucking hell, they called_ him_ savage, but revered the one who charmed him so he could only do as he was bid by the caster? And people wondered why he hated humans so.

But he hadn't wanted to eat her. Oh, no. He said he did, but that was just a cover for what he really wanted. Even in the state the Dark Lord had forced him to exist, he knew in a split-second of catching her scent that he wanted to keep her. Protect her. _Have _her. All the things that would mean she was _his._

He'd leaned close as the crew with him had laughed and leveled threats while trying to scare them into talking, while trying to figure out who was who. He'd breathed the words in her ear, "Shit's going to get rough. Play along."

It was the best warning he could work up with his mind so fragmented by hunger and need.

But she'd only blinked up at him, her fear not changing or lessening a single iota. That was when he understood. The girl had no idea what she was. The girl who claimed to be a Half-blood but turned out to be a Muggle-born.

No one would care what became of her. Only one way to ensure she survived this.

He'd played up his ferocity just for them. He talked about how much he liked flesh like hers. Wondered allowed what her skin would taste like as he took bites out of her . . . .

By the time they dragged those three into Malfoy Manor, there was no doubt in anyone's mind that he wanted to eat her or add her to the army. No doubt that anyone they were about to see would mind handing the Mudblood witch over to him.

Hermione could feel it. She wasn't sure what it was. But something in the way he looked at her, something about the little internal shiver that rumbled through her core whenever he talked, something in the very nearness of him spoke to her on some primal level she didn't quite grasp.

When he told her to play along, it only added to her confusion about him—to her fear over getting caught. Play along with _what?_

Was she supposed to be doing something? Respond somehow to his gross and unsettling threats? He was a horrible, savage creature, just as Harry'd said, just as the stories of him portrayed.

And yet . . . _something ._ . . .

She didn't know why, but as she'd been separated from the others after arriving at Malfoy Manor, her attention kept flicking back to him. Even while Bellatrix tortured her, she found her gaze fixed on him. Found how odd it was that he could not seem to look upon the scene. With his storied savagery, this should be amusing to him.

But again, in the way he couldn't watch . . . . In the way he gripped his wand, white-knuckled while he listened to her screaming . . . _something _. . . .

Then, Harry and Ron had burst back into the room and all hell broke loose.

Bellatrix had pulled her up, had held that blade to her throat. But as the threat of taking Hermione's life had fallen from the Dark witch's lips, her rescue came from the source she least expected.

Fenrir Greyback clamped his hand around Bellatrix's, peeling the knife from Hermione's neck, but not before Bellatrix had managed to gouge her captive's skin with it.

His voice was so thick with growls, his words were barely intelligible as he said in a seething whisper, "I had to put up with her screams, but no more. You'll _not_ kill one of my kind, woman!"

Bellatrix gaped at him in a mix of shock and fury. A heartbeat passed before she realized he wasn't relinquishing his hold on the knife.

As she brought up her wand in her free hand—it wasn't her wand hand, but it would do for this—he realized he would not be the one to get the girl out of here. He shoved Hermione toward her friends.

In the confusion and tumult to follow, Bellatrix forced Greyback to his knees, screaming at him for his disrespect, bellowing about how the Dark Lord would make him suffer for this.

The last thing Hermione heard as Ron caught her stumbling body in his arms and Dobby Apparated them away was Fenrir Greyback growling back at Bellatrix about how she had no authority over any werewolf. "The girl included," he said.

Everything had happened in such an odd, strained daze after that. Dobby—poor, dear Dobby passing away like that. Harry torturing himself for not being able to save their friend. Ron trying to apologize for not being able to save her from Bellatrix. Really, there was no way they could've, so Hermione didn't think there was anything to apologize for.

Still in that daze as she convalesced, Harry and Ron asked her about what Greyback had told Bellatrix. She filled them in on what he'd said when he pulled Bellatrix's blade from her throat.

They both guffawed at that. They assumed Greyback had only meant he wanted her for his army, wanted her as some sort of trophy-kill, maybe.

But Hermione knew in her gut it was more than that.

She heard his words over and over in the back of her mind in the days to follow. She remembered how oddly natural it had felt that night she'd howled to distract Remus—something that shouldn't have ever worked. She didn't have the vocal cords of a ruddy wolf! It should've sounded fake to him. She never thought on it. She'd absorbed that information about werewolves Snape had given them more readily than any other subject she'd ever researched. She'd felt so personally betrayed when she covered for Remus' condition only to find out he'd been helping Sirius, suspected of such heinous crimes back then.

And then there were all those suspicious feelings she experienced in Greyback's closeness.

Hermione had no idea how, but she knew in her gut . . . . There _was_ something of the wolf in her.

Worse, now the Death Eaters knew it, too. If she was caught again, they'd probably consign her to being bitten to bring out the beast in her. Someone like her was probably guaranteed to change, no risking death when the curse took hold.

But she ignored the sense of her own thoughts. She didn't want to know the truth of it. She didn't want to believe. And so, she went along with Harry and Ron. Told herself she'd misread everything, even her own gut instincts.

She didn't see him again until the final battle. In the middle of everything, she couldn't spare the time to think about what it'd felt like to see him tangled up with Lavender Brown. Sick and odd and twisted as that was. She'd caught him with a hex without a second thought, propelling him away from the other witch, and kept running.

All the chaos and screaming and panic around her . . . .

And then Harry fell. Not in the way anyone feared he might. Hermione had no idea what had happened in the woods, but now, in front of the Death Eaters and their foul ilk, in front of the Light, Harry Potter bent knee to the Dark Lord and loudly proclaimed his fealty.

She didn't have time to think, a sensation like she'd been punched in the stomach rocking through her. Ron and the others were backpedaling in horror from the spectacle, as though the entire world had ground to a halt. And it might as well have. Nothing made sense to Hermione in that moment.

Nothing aside from Voldemort's laughter registered in her ears while he clasped Harry's left forearm in his free hand. While he pressed the tip of his wand to the inside of Harry's wrist, the Dark Mark exploding forth along his skin for all to see.

As Harry rose, the Dark Lord declared that those who still stood against them would be shown no mercy. Imprisonment would not be an option for those who continued the struggle.

But she could not take a tally of who fought on, or who capitulated. Because the Dark Lord's next words changed her world as surely as Harry's betrayal had shattered it.

"The werewolves," he said to Harry and other Death Eaters. He turned, pinning his gaze somewhere over Hermione's shoulder. Her breath thundered out of her lungs as she turned to look. Fenrir Greyback stood a meter behind her, his amber eyes wide in realization as he stared back at Voldemort.

"With Potter on my side, their force is no longer necessary." Hermione could swear there was a strange light of malicious joy in the serpentine wizard's eyes as he continued, "I want them dead. Every. Last. One."

Hermione thought sure her brain had shut down. Harry knew what Greyback had said about her. Hell, for all the Death Eaters knew, she had secretly been a werewolf all along.

"We have to move."

In a daze, she turned her head, meeting Greyback's eyes. Her attention fell to the clawed fingers of his outstretched hand.

Growling, he spat out the words, "It's me or _them_!"

She couldn't help herself. One last time, she looked back at Harry. He moved as one with the Death Eaters, following the Dark Lord's bidding as they chased down the werewolves still on the battlefield. The ones who'd not heard Voldemort's command.

Swallowing hard, she put her hand in Greyback's, a tear falling as he pulled her side-along away from the scene.


	2. Chapter 2

**NOTE:**

Depiction of Fenrir's appearance prior to the final scene of this chapter based on Harry's observation of him from the _Deathly Hallows _book.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Fenrir came to slowly, his head pounding and his insides positively screaming at him. He could smell burning wood and hear the crackle of a fire.

Last he recalled was appearing with the girl in the furthest-away wooded area he could think of in the moment. His . . . dietary restriction left him feeling sick on far too many occasions, and he didn't use Apparition often. Perhaps he should've realized that the stomach-twisting sensation which accompanied that form of magical travel would kick that typical nauseous state up a notch. Enough to knock him cold, however, was a bit of a surprise.

But not so much of a surprise as waking to find a roaring fire, a set tent, and the girl still with him, seated on the opposite side of the flames.

She had a book open, and appeared to be scribbling away furiously. While she wrote whatever it was, the witch carried on a rather animated, albeit silent, conversation with herself.

"Thought you'd make a break for it first chance you got, little girly."

Hermione stopped talking to herself, but didn't appear startled by the suddenness of his currently sandpaper-like voice slicing the quiet of the night.

She shook her head, not even gracing him with a glance. "Not exactly an overwhelming number of places I can go, or people I can turn to without endangering someone I care about, or putting myself right in some Death Eater's cross hairs. Harry's turned sides. He knows how I think and over the last, oh, eight or nine months, has learned the places I run to. Until I get him away from You Know Who and, I dunno, beat some sense back into his ruddy thick skull, it's best I not make the decisions on where to hide."

Fenrir could only stare at her a moment, his features seeming pinched in a perpetual wince. "You always so pragmatic?"

"Only when I'm awake." She still had yet to look up from her writing. "And do _not _call me 'little girly.' Turns my bloody stomach."

"What would you rather I call you?"

Once more, the witch shook her head. "I don't really care what you call me, just not that."

"Hmm. I'll have to think up something good, then."

"You could always be_ really_ daring and call me by my name."

"You know, that is a novel thought. But it'll be a no."

"It's true, isn't it?" she asked suddenly, the question coming out of the blue. "I've got werewolf blood, haven't I?"

He nodded. "I thought you knew, that's why I tried to get Bellatrix to hand you over."

She didn't know if he meant that in a good way, or a wicked one. Instead, she simply nodded back. No way to find out how that had happened at the moment. Maybe when this was all over, she could research her family tree. That was a nice, calming, _boring_ thought.

Fenrir winced, making his already pained expression more excruciating still, as he curled over on his side. She didn't even look up. The pain tearing through his gut, announcing a hunger pang, was agonizing. "Merlin's fucking sake, I'm _starving_."

"Hmph," she breathed out the sound. "Then you'd better content yourself with hunting up some squirrels or rabbits, or plucking a fish from the stream, because I'm the only human for who knows how far, and I am_ not_ on the menu. I also have your wand, so there'll be no argument about it, either."

He chuckled, rolling to lie on his back again and closing his eyes. "Believe me, sweetness. I ever get around to eating you, it certainly won't be in the way you're thinking right now."

Her eyes shooting wide, Hermione finally did lift her gaze from her writing, the quill stilling against the page.

"Oh, hey! That works. Yep, calling you Sweetness from here on out."

She stared at the werewolf in silence, uncertain quite how she felt about his statement—and ignoring her confusion that she wasn't immediately flat-out horrified by his insinuation. Scrambling for something to say, she managed, "Whatever, still, you . . . you've got whatever you can scrounge up from the forest."

Once more he laughed, the mirthful sound just as agonized as before. "No, I really don't. Wish I did."

Closing her book on the quill, she set it aside and clasped her hands in her lap. She'd never felt less threatened in the presence of a 'savage' creature in all her life. "What does that even mean?"

Cracking one eye open, he looked over at her. Strangely surprised to find her attention actually on him, he shrugged. "The whole . . . people-eating thing? Not exactly my idea."

Her brows pinched together. "And what does _that_ even mean?"

He pulled himself to sit up, moving slow so as not to agitate her. He could already feel her tension and anxiety winding the air as it was. "Worst kept secret of the Dark, Sweetness."

Hermione only watched him, waiting for the actual explanation.

Fenrir hesitated. He wasn't even entirely certain why; perhaps because he'd never spoken of it aloud before? Perhaps because he thought she might not believe him? Think he was making up some grotesque lie to excuse his equally grotesque actions so she might drop her guard around him.

Holding in a groan, he shifted in discomfort. "I can't eat. Anything._ Literally_ can't. Not unless the Dark Lord grants me his permission."

The witch felt her spine stiffen. "I'm . . . I'm not sure I understand."

Pursing his lips, he glanced about and scratched at his chin through his beard. "He liked the stories about me. The ones you probably know, calling me savage and all that. Said he wanted to use that to his advantage. Something to truly strike fear in his enemies hearts." His amber eyes became dull, then, unfocused. "Next thing I knew, he hit me with a _Petrificus_, and then slapped a charm on me."

She covered her mouth with her hand, stifling a shocked gasp. Hermione was all too aware of the movement as he turned his head, his gaze locking on hers. Letting her fingers slip away from her lips, she said, "He used a charm to turn you into a cannibal?"

The werewolf shrugged, wincing with the motion. "It was a command charm. Command was I could only consume what he said, when he said."

"And he said . . . _people_ . . . ."

He nodded, echoing her horrified whisper. "He said people."

God, she felt nauseated just hearing this! She had known all along that Voldemort was truly, deep down, dark and vile, but something as awful as _this_? What was more . . . . As she sat here with him, as she listened to him, she realized . . . . She saw a person beneath this terrible, ferocious countenance the Dark Lord had probably nurtured and insisted upon. The matted hair, the overgrowth on his face, the blisters . . . . He was in a terrible state, now that she thought on it.

And Voldemort had only allowed him to keep existing on the flesh of people. People were . . . polluted, dirty, sickly, full of germs . . . . Fenrir Greyback was here because of that, looking like he might well keel over if she left him alone too long. The Dark Lord probably imagined he'd be forced to starve to death, now, if he couldn't be around people, chances of which were limited since the Death Eaters and their ilk were all set on orders to slaughter Greyback and his kind.

A terrible thought occurred to Hermione, then. Remus was gone, she'd seen his fallen form with her own eyes. But that still left someone behind. Someone who might well grow up to be a werewolf.

Someone recently-Marked Death Eater Harry Potter knew about. Someone utterly defenseless. It might not occur to him right away, but eventually he'd realize. And if he truly wanted to prove his new, twisted loyalty to Voldemort . . . .

"Oh, my God. Oh, no," she said in an abrupt whisper, her fingers curling into her jumper just over her heart.

"What?"

She returned her attention to him, her eyes wide and watering. Already her compassion had started winning out, but now that she saw his expression, saw the_ real_, blatant concern beneath all that hair and marred skin, she knew she had to do something about his situation.

And really, who else was going to do anything for him?

"I have to get to someone. I have to warn them to go into hiding. If I don't, something terrible could happen." She took a chance, rising from her place and rounding the fire. He watched her like one might watch a wild animal at the zoo—curious but cautious—as she drew closer, taking a seat on the ground before him. "I have no way of knowing what You Know Who is up to, or if forms of magical communication might be monitored, somehow, and I don't know if any of the survivors will be able reach them, or even be aware they're in danger, hence why I have to get to them in person. I'm going to need your help to get there."

He uttered a pained laugh, curling his arms around his midsection. "Don't think I'm in a condition to get anyone anywhere, Sweetness."

"That's why I'm going to help you, first. I've a plan."

"That was fast."

"Told you, pragmatic when awake. I'll figure out how to break the charm on you, we get you cleaned up, well enough to travel, and then you help me. If the Dark Lord really wants all werewolves dead, the Forbidden Forest is right there. They'll be rooting through there, first. It's dense, it's the best hiding place, he'll think your people fell back, hoping to conceal themselves in it. And it's huge. That buys us some time. Probably a few days, even, enough to get you on your feet and be on our way." Swallowing hard, she held out her hand. "Enough to possibly save a wholly innocent life. _Please_."

He eyed her hand warily. "Just who is this 'wholly innocent' person we're going to risk our necks trying to get to t' warn?"

"Not them, personally, their grandmother." She shook her head, the tip of her nose stinging as she hoped, desperately, that she was wrong—hoped Harry had not fallen so far from grace that he'd do such an unspeakable thing. "It's Remus Lupin's infant son, Teddy."

Fenrir's brow furrowed in question.

"Remus fell today in battle, I know, but the last conversation we had with him, he was fretting that Teddy would inherit his curse." Her voice broke a little and she forced herself to continue. "It was an argument _with _Harry, in fact. I hate having to think it, but I can't leave it to chance if Harry might try to go after him as an easy target. I have to get to Teddy's grandmother. I have to tell her to take Teddy and run. Please. Help me."

Grumbling out a sigh, he shook his head. "This has trouble written all over it."

"I've been in trouble since the first day I learned I was a witch."

A strained moment passed before Fenrir grasped her hand, giving it a firm shake. "Fine. You help me, I help you."

She nodded, pressing herself to smile. First bit of good news she'd had in she couldn't even remember how long. "Okay." She extracted her hand from his and withdrew her wand. "Let's break that charm."

* * *

Harry bit out an angry sound, thumping the sole of his boot against the tree trunk. He'd circled the entire perimeter of the castle. Greyback was nowhere to be found. Hermione was nowhere to be found. And, given Greyback's fancying of the witch, Harry had a feeling they were together—whether she liked it or not.

"Something troubles you?"

Shaking his head, Harry let out a sigh. "She's gone."

"You mean your Mudblood?"

Harry nodded. He'd not waste time reminding _Tom_ that he didn't like that term. "The others heard it. They know. They'll try to kill her with the rest of the werewolves."

"And you want, what, my dear boy?" Voldemort gripped Harry's chin with gentle fingers and turned his face. "To keep her for yourself?"

Again, Harry nodded. He didn't feel the cold grip of that bony hand, in his mind, it was warm skin, smooth and plump. Meeting Voldemort's gaze, he did not glimpse the snake-like features, or serpentine gaze, but the face of the young man he'd met those years ago, trapped within the pages of his own diary. The eyes he stared into were the rich blue of a Tom Riddle his own age.

He knew they meant two different things by the use of the term 'keep.' Harry thought it in keeping her by his side. Voldemort thought it in keeping her as a pet. Harry wasn't sure the semantics mattered, as it still equated finding her and keeping her safe . . . with _him_, of course, but that was obvious.

"The world is ours, now." Voldemort grinned, aware Harry saw that youthful façade. "There is nowhere she can run that we will not eventually find her." He sighed shaking his head. "I had planned to do away with the Mudbloods after the werewolves, as she's both, you must know it will take work to keep your brethren in line, should they come across her. However, I will see that she_ is_ spared for you."

Harry smiled. "Thank you, My Lord."

Voldemort nodded, relinquishing his hold on the young man's face and turning in the direction of the castle. "Now, back on task."

"Yes, My Lord."

The Dark Lord stalked away, comforted by the sound of Harry Potter's voice, barking orders at the other Death Eaters scattered throughout the Forbidden Forest in his stead.

* * *

Hermione could feel it. She could feel the moment the magic binding Greyback to Voldemort's will had snapped.

As she'd worked, however, Fenrir had seemed to get a bit worse. It was a strange moment as she found herself hoping he wasn't dying.

"Okay, we're clear, it's done."

He nodded, his olive complexion gone pale and clammy. "I think I'd like some water," he said, his voice tumbling out in a breathless whisper as he smirked. "Start . . . start off light."

"Probably best until your system cleans itself out. The next twenty-four hours are going to be rough." She stood and went into the tent to get some things.

Fenrir watched her go, uttering a miserable sigh. He might talk a good game, with his facetiousness, but he was not overly hopeful of their circumstances. "The fuck are we going to pull this off?" he asked himself the question under his breath. Oh, sure, getting to one old witch and her grand-baby? Fine. He was more concerned about their continued survival after this mission.

The Dark Lord and his new little friend might not have any idea where to look for them, yet, but he wasn't certain how long they'd be able to stay under the radar. Oh, sure, if no one was looking for them, then years, but in a situation where they were being actively hunted?

"Here we go," she said, her voice full of forced cheerfulness as she brought back a cup fresh water.

He struggled to sit up straight, and she obligingly held the cup to his lips for him.

Over the next few days, Hermione saw a marked improvement in him. Not just his appetite for not-human-flesh returning in full force—thankfully, he proved a competent hunter, as she imagined the mushroom stews she'd been forced to live on during the Horcrux hunt would only make him worse—but his skin had cleared, as well. The blisters and sores from the putrid diet he'd been forced to exist on were gone.

He'd even started to clean himself up, his once matted hair now hung in long, coarse waves around his shoulders and down his back. Hermione'd hit his clothes with a cleaning charm—which he was not pleased about, in the least. Indeed, by the time he was well enough for them to get a move on to warn Andromeda, he seemed like an entirely different being from the man who had dragged them to Malfoy Manor a few weeks ago.

Fenrir had disappeared inside the tent as Hermione sorted and shrunk down her supplies to toss in her beaded bag.

"All right, let's get moving."

She nearly jumped out of her skin at his abrupt words. "Oh, of course. I'm just making sure I have every . . . ." Her voice trailed off as she looked up at him.

He was tucking a blade she had no idea he'd had into the back of his robes as he held her hand mirror out for her to take back. The hair that had grown over his face, leaving his features obscured and adding to his bestial appearance was gone. The beard and mustache left behind were a bit long and roughly cut, but it was certainly a marked improvement on what he'd looked like even just a few days ago.

She could actually see his face. His . . . she swallowed hard . . . . His _handsome_, amber-eyed face.

His brows shot up as he waited for some response from her. "Hullo?" He waved the mirror at her.

"Oh, right," she said, giving a start and laughing at herself. She took the mirror and stowed it away with everything else.

Fenrir eyed her suspiciously. "You a' right?"

Hermione nodded, clearing her throat, though she refused to lift her gaze back to his, just now. "Fine, fine." She flicked her wand, dispelling the charm on the tent. "Just um, grab the tent and let's go."

Dismantling the tarp and pegs in series of swift, expert movements, he kept an eye on her as she began walking. Bundling it under one arm, he stood and started after her.

There was something in the way she'd looked at him just then, he thought with a snicker. He'd wait for her to realize it, maybe, feeling sure that if he pointed it out himself, she'd jump eyeball deep into denial, and didn't they have enough troubles at the moment?


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

They'd been on the move all night. Hermione hadn't wanted to waste any time, she knew the Death Eaters wouldn't sleep unless Voldemort gave the order, let alone ease up for even a hair's breadth on their current preoccupation of werewolf hunting. Realistically, he was letting them sleep, as the bulk of his minions collapsing from exhaustion would only hinder their ability to fulfill his orders, and their precious Dark Lord was nothing if not self-serving.

She lost herself entirely to her pondering as they walked along, side-by-side. The sounds of the woods at night and the steady cadence of their own footfalls against the tightly-packed earth of the forest floor in her ears had a lulling affect that helped her sink fast into her thoughts.

How funny it was that the perfect hunters, the tireless ones, the ones he really could've pressed into service in any way he saw fit had he only kept his promise to create a world where they would not be persecuted, were the very creatures he was trying to kill off. He could've done anything, she suddenly understood. He could've ordered them to kill any of their own kind who stood against him; everyone on the side of the Light claimed Remus Lupin was the only 'good' werewolf, the only exception to the rule, but she knew in her gut that couldn't be true. If the Lupins hid their own son's condition and tried to help him and hide it as best they could, didn't it stand to reason that others out there had lived with the same circumstances?

Voldemort could've ordered them to thin the herd themselves and then had the Death Eaters focus on the surviving members of the werewolf army—after participating in the Battle of Hogwarts and going up against their own, the numbers would have been decreased. Still the Death Eaters would've had a fight on their hands, but it certainly would've been an easier task than hunting down the survivors on both sides. Werewolves were nothing if not scrappy, after all.

Her features pinched in thought. What _had_ become of those other hidden werewolves on the side of the Light? Had any of them been close enough to hear Voldemort's death decree? Were they in plain sight, hiding behind the assumption that no one knew they were werewolves, or were they acting out of self-preservation and precaution, gone on the run now, just as she and Fenrir had?

The snap of a twig under her foot brought her out of her reverie, the dry, crisp sound echoing strangely in the silence.

She realized as they made their way closer to the location of the Tonks house—walking just inside the tree line of a forest-edged road that looked as though it hadn't seen traffic in years, reminding Hermione of background scenery in some post-apocalyptic film—that she had no idea what information about the end of the War had even reached the people of Wizarding Britain.

She _also _realized that she hadn't actually met Andromeda Tonks before. Well, this was bound to be a spectacularly awkward introduction, wasn't it? Not to mention painful . . . was _she_ going to be the one to inform Andromeda that her daughter and son-in-law had been casualties? She thought her heart might stop in her chest at the sudden weight of sadness and anxiety pressing on her.

The sound of Fenrir sniffing at the air stalled her footfalls and yanked her out of her woes. She turned to look up at him, his features sharper, starkened by the light of their wands in the darkness. Still she couldn't get over how different he looked now that he was cleaned up and permitted a normal diet . . . now that he was simply healthy. Despite the vast improvement to his appearance, he seemed somehow more feral just now as he tipped his head back to pull in long, deep lungfuls of air through his nostrils.

"We should set camp."

His abrupt declaration threw her. Glancing along the wind of the night-shrouded road barely visible past the trees, she shook her head. "Wait, what? No. It's only a few more miles! We're nearly there." She'd never been there before, neither had he, which was why they'd been forced to travel on foot; she only had an address to go on and the hope that she get to them before Harry even had the chance to weigh whether or not he should come for Teddy.

"We won't reach the house before the rain reaches us."

"Rain?" She turned around, trying to catch the scent of salt in the air, herself. "I don't smell anything."

He snickered, which earned him a scowl from the witch. "Think you would, with that little human nose of yours? You're a cute one. We're just slightly upwind of it."

Folding her arms under her breasts, she simply frowned up at him. She knew he was right. Even if it wasn't for the fact that her sense of smell was nothing next to his, there were other factors clouding it for a creature with a less-developed nose—the brittle asphalt of the road so nearby, the foliage, the woodland animals, the rich, dense soil beneath their feet. "Fine. How much time do we have 'til it's on us?"

"Not long." He cast his gaze skyward. "Few more minutes and you'll be able to pick up the scent, too. We can maybe make it another mile before the sky opens up on us, but it's wiser not to wait to get shelter set up. Storms _can_ be unpredictable."

"Hang on," she said, her eyes widening. "Storm? I thought you said rain."

"I did." Fenrir shrugged, curling his lip a bit as he shook his head at her. "There's rain in a storm."

Throwing back her head, she groaned as she let him guide her a bit further away from the road in the search for a suitable spot to set the tent. "Yes, Greyback, there's rain. There's _also _winds and lighting, and—"

"In my defense, I never said we were _only_ expecting rain, I just said we wouldn't reach the house before it starts." Again he shrugged. "I thought by setting up now, we'd have time to make fortifications to wait out those other troublesome elements you've so helpfully listed."

"I hate you," she muttered while she opened her little beaded bag and started extracting the necessary items to re-enlarge so they could make camp.

"I'm certain that's what you tell yourself," he said with a smirk as he turned away and started deeper into the woods.

"Where are you going?"

He looked back at her over his shoulder, speaking as he moved. "Thought I'd hunt us up a few things. Might be stuck 'til sun up and I wouldn't want my stomach to rumble and spook you. I'll be back by the time you're done setting the tent."

Hermione ignored the bit about her potentially finding his growling stomach scary; she was pretty sure—now that she was getting to know him a bit—that he couldn't help but find people's fear of him amusing, especially since he was so constantly cognizant of the source and until now had been unable to act against it. Maybe he had to find humor in their terror, she reasoned. Maybe it was the only way to survive his circumstances _emotionally_.

Shaking her head, she pushed aside this consideration. This was not exactly the time for thinking she might be starting to understand Fenrir Greyback, and she certainly didn't have the desire to ponder _that _any longer, either.

She was well aware she'd never be able to help with hunting even if she wanted to—the animals were seeking shelter from the impending storm just as they were, if not already safely tucked away. After all, hadn't she noticed the woods had gone quiet only moments earlier? There'd been nocturnal forest sounds, and then there'd been silence, but she'd been too absorbed in her own thoughts at the time to make the distinction. Without a keener sense of smell like Fenrir had, she'd be useless in tracking down anything. Besides, she wasn't sure she had the heart to actually kill any of the animals herself.

"Sure." She nodded and turned back to her own task. That seemed fair. Strange that she should so easily strike a balance in workload with Fenrir Greyback, but there it was.

Harry and Ron had both been content to let her put in the bulk of the work when they'd been on the Horcrux hunt. From picking where they set up to casting the wards, even preparing meals though none of them had any idea how to survive on what was around them. She tried her damnedest and she'd known her efforts were barely palatable—it was sustenance and it hadn't poisoned any of them and that was the best they could all hope for under their abysmal circumstances, but one would swear those boys had expected her to whip up some gourmet feast when they could hardly scrounge together shrubs.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slow, Hermione reminded herself this was not the time to fret about what had once been. She also recognized that by getting angry at Harry about things from the past that were flippant by comparison, it spared her. It distracted her from having her heart broken all over again by his betrayal.

* * *

"Oh," Fenrir said as he ducked into the tent, startling Hermione as she set to lighting the kindling in the firepit, "going Spartan again, are we?"

She frowned, looking about. It was a little more of a snug fit than what she'd typically set up during all those months traveling with the other two—it would probably less painful for her if she avoided directly thinking their names whenever possible—but it was only her and Fenrir. The other difference was that she'd wisely created an open space above the fire, magically protected so that it would let the smoke out, but not the elements in.

And it was precisely the same set up she'd used while nursing his clearly ungrateful lupine arse back to health. It was a very basic lodge with a low floor, wooden beams to fortify the walls, and bedding on either side of the fire, far enough for personal space, yet close enough to the fire to keep warm. The nerve of him, sounding like it was paltry!

"I beg your pardon? What's wrong with it?"

He shrugged, bringing his kills—small game, but she guessed he made the choice based on what was easiest to catch with the pending storm, and what he thought she could reasonably stomach watching him skin and gut—to the fireside, he hunkered down. "Nothin'." He went on as he retrieved an ancient-looking blade from his boot and started preparing the cooling bodies. "Just figured someone like you preferred comfort, is all."

Hermione towered over him, which was _only _possible due to the fact that he was currently seated on the floor, and propped her fists on hips. "Someone like me?"

The werewolf seemed oblivious to her touched nerve, going on in a conversational tone, "I'm not wholly unfamiliar with Muggles—unlike those pure-blood bastards you're more used to spending time around, apparently—and you, I dunno, carry yourself a bit like you might come from the posh side of town."

"The _posh_ side of . . . ." Her echoed words just slid off as she gaped at him. "Well that's just . . . ." Her parents were both dentists, a profession at which they were each quite successful. "I . . . ." Had she not been a witch, her parents could've afforded to send her to any Muggle school she wanted. "But . . . ." And it was hardly as though they lived in a mansion, but she supposed that yes, compared to some, her upbringing had been . . . financially comfortable.

"Oh, shut it," she finally huffed, shaking her head at him. Sometimes she forgot that the last nine months of willingly roughing it did not change the previous eighteen years of having it relatively easy. "The choice of the tent's interior spell was a question of conserving my energy, not luxury. There's a fire, cots, and for the sake of convenience, utilities in the far corner behind that wall there." She pointed. Yes, she'd even thought to install a door with a latch on the inside.

"Have my presumptions offended you?" he asked, his tone mild, the question nearly lost in the soft, wet, suckling sounds of his knife working through the animal's flesh.

"Is it that obvious?"

Fenrir glanced back at her, one of his villainously arched brows raised. "Now you know how it feels."

She swallowed hard, understanding what he meant to get at, but he didn't seem to understand who he was talking to. "I may come from a_ slightly_ on the posh side background in the Muggle world, but I shouldn't need to remind you that in the Wizarding world, I come with a hateful label, too. I may not be deemed 'savage' or 'half-breed', but there are still a boatload of unpleasant judgments and distinctions that come with being born a Muggle in our world, Greyback; still that temptation some people have to call me something else to my face when they hear the word 'Muggle-born.' So thank you, but I didn't need your little lesson just now to understand what it's like to be unfairly judged for reasons beyond your control."

His broad shoulders drooped a little and he frowned as he returned his attention to preparing his kills to go on the fire. She was correct, of course—what Bellatrix had done to her that night at Malfoy Manor? Mad bat might never have gotten away with doing that if Hermione Granger had been even a half-blood. Now? Now the Wizarding world was moving into a frightening new era for her, one in which her very existence wasn't just a blight to some, but an outright and completely legal death warrant.

"I suppose you're right." He nodded. "So let's make a deal, then?"

Hermione gripped her wand tight, her knuckles drained of blood with the force behind it. "Go on."

"We move forward with no more presumptions about one another."

Her chestnut eyes darted about and her lips pressed into a thoughtful line. "That's it?"

Again, he nodded. "That's it. We might be stuck together a while, if we want to keep the tension to a minimum, it makes sense to avoid getting on one another's nerves however we're able. So, we want to know something about each other? We simply ask."

She forced a deep breath. "Okay." Flexing her fingers, she loosened her hold on her weapon. "That sounds perfectly reasonable." In fact, she was a little annoyed with herself that she'd not been the one to come up with such a simple solution. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go get those wards in place before the rain hits. I'll leave you be with . . . that," she said, waving to indicate his current task.

"Of course you will."

She shook her head at him, keeping a retort to herself—she couldn't exactly argue the fact that she would have an easier time eating if she didn't have to watch the process by which the food she was about to consume went from dead animal to grilled meat. "Be back shortly," was all she managed in reply before she turned on her heel and headed out of the tent.

He cast his gaze upward, eyeing the thick blanket of deep grey clouds rolling in overhead through the vent in the tent's roof. "It'll be a miracle if we don't kill each other before the Death Eaters find us," he said in a low, growling murmur.

* * *

Hermione awoke in a fog, uncertain quite what had disturbed her. Blinking hard a few times, she slid her wand from beneath her pillow and breathed a quiet, "Lumos." It was purely reactionary, as there was still just enough light from the flames that hadn't yet died out in the firepit to let her make sense of her surroundings.

Folding back her the top of her sleeping bag, she sat up and looked around. Fenrir's cot on the other side of the pit was empty. She pretended the thought that he'd left didn't fill her with panic as she scrambled out of her own cot and padded across the floor of the tent. Rapping her knuckles against the bathroom door, it jostled back and forth a bit at her knock, clearly unlatched, the space beyond empty.

"Where could you have . . . ?" Her voice trailed off as she turned away, noticing a dark pile just inside the tent's opening.

Brow furrowing, she moved toward it. Far too small to be a collapsed werewolf, as she neared it she could see what it was—a pile of leather and boots beside it. Kneeling closer, she confirmed what it was—Fenrir Greyback's robes.

A distant howl echoed outside the tent and she immediately shot to her feet. As she bolted for the tent's flap to rush outside, she crashed into Fenrir as he was coming back inside.

His considerably sturdier form dominated the collision and she was knocked backward. It seemed to take each of them a moment to register what, precisely, had happened. He fixed confused amber eyes on her as she gaped up at him from the floor, her palms braced on either side of her as she tried to force her lungs to take in air.

"What the—? Oh, for the love of . . . here." Fenrir frowned, still a little confused as he reached a hand down to help her to her feet.

She was forced to admit to herself that she was in a bit of a daze, either from her impact with the ground or her impact with _him_, she couldn't be sure. That must be what it was that stalled her to accept.

Stripped down to nothing but a pair of tattered leather trousers, the waning orange illumination danced and dipped across the lines of muscle in his arms and torso, brightened the strains of yellow in his amber eyes and softened the ridiculously rugged angles of his face. She'd never seen him look like this before—never imagined he could look like this.

Hermione pushed aside a little fluttering stir in her gut that threatened to swoop lower in her body and slipped her hand into his. With a quick, simple tug she was on her feet, perhaps even in the air for a split-second, given his effortless strength and her comparatively slight build.

"Thank . . . thank you," she said after a moment, needing to force a gulp down her throat. "What, um, what were you doing out there? Did I hear a wolf howling?"

He snickered. "There's no wild wolves in the UK anymore, Sweetness, only _were_wolves. But yeah. I was trying to get a bead on others who might be out there."

"Wh—?" She was so shocked at the inherent danger in what he'd just done that she couldn't form the entire word. "Isn't that dangerous, then? Most people know there aren't wild wolves anymore. If someone of a mind to hunt us is close enough to hear, won't they realize—?"

"As far as we know, the Death Eaters are the only ones carrying out the kill order and we've put plenty of distance between us and them so far—the Ministry, even under the Dark Lord's rule, won't have time to drop cleaning up his messes to assist with that—and all they'd hear is the howl. They wouldn't get from it the information another werewolf would."

"Like actual wolves," she started with a nod, "you can determine one another's location based on a howl."

A half-grin curved his lips at her already having some insight on this. "_And_ if they're in any sort of distress—wounded or lost."

"Did it work? Did you hear anyone? Because that sounded like it was far away."

"Yeah." Fenrir frowned again, pensively, and shook his head. "Not sure who they were, but they sounded unharmed. Think they might be moving on. We'll head to where I heard them after we check in on the pup in the morning."

"You think they'll still be there?"

"No idea, but maybe knowing there are other werewolves in the area, they'll leave something behind only we can follow."

She shifted her weight, left to right and back again as she stared up at him. Perhaps it shouldn't be a surprise that their current circumstances would unite the fractured species across battle lines so they might all achieve their common goal—survival. Even so . . . . "I, um, I have to think, given your reputation, they might not be inclined to accept any aid from us."

He chuckled, a deep, rich sound, and tapped her one tip of her nose. "That's why you'll do the talking if we do encounter them face-to-face, of course."

"Of course. Okay, but _why_ did any of this mean you had to run about barefoot and without your robes?"

"Oh, it didn't." Those massive shoulders of his moved in a languid shrug. "Just like the wind on my skin and the earth beneath my feet."

"Ah, all right then."

He lifted a brow at her. "You can take your hand back, now."

The witch blanched, her eyes shooting wide. She sincerely hadn't even realized she'd left her fingers resting in his all this time.

Snatching back her hand, she _hmphed_ her way over the her cot. "Well, I'm quite awake, now, thank you, and if the storm has passed, then we should really be on our way. With you fully clothed, if you don't mind!"

Holding back another laugh—oh, no, that would just antagonize her further—he picked up his robes and pulled them on. It was certainly better he not tell her that he could easily smell the true source of her irritation with him.

* * *

Hermione stared back at Andromeda—the elder witch's eyes were red rimmed and visibly tear-filled, despite how damp her cheeks already were, as though there was no end to them—and shook her head. Perhaps she didn't understand what she was saying, after all they'd just delivered some very upsetting news. Maybe Andromeda Tonks was in shock and unaware the meaning of the words she'd just spoken.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said, shaking her head. "I must've misheard you."

"No." Andromeda swallowed hard and dabbed a tissue against her cheeks. "No, you didn't. I know a place I can hide with Teddy, but I fear traveling with him. If you've survived the War while . . . while Dora and Remus did not, I have to believe you have strength enough to protect him while I go and secure the area."

"This is madness," Fenrir said, his whisper barely audible. So, what? He cleaned himself up, looked somewhat civilized, and suddenly people thought he was to be trusted with infants?

"It is not!" Andromeda snapped, her expression shifting from heartbroken to fierce in a blink. "If they come for him, of course they'll expect him to be with me, wherever I've gone. If they catch me before I get to safety, who knows what'll become of him. However, I did much research on werewolves as soon as Dora told me she was with child. I know how to leave a trail only one of your kind can track," she said, her gaze unflinchingly on Greyback's. "I'll get to safety and then I'll contact you. Just a moment."

Andromeda didn't wait to see if either of them had any more questions or objections, rising from her seat and hurrying from the room. Hermione and Fenrir exchanged a look in her absence.

"Now we're surrogate parents?"

Hermione could only shake her head, utterly speechless. After a few heartbeats, she managed to scrape together enough coherent thoughts to form sentences. "It'll . . . it'll only be for a few days. She's right, it's probably safer if she get herself settled wherever she intends to hide with him, so she can be certain it is, in fact, _safe_, and then we bring him to her. We know how to cover our tracks."

"You think we'll be able to travel with an infant?"

"We are both perfectly competent people, I'm sure we can figure it out!"

Greyback propped an elbow on his knee and dropped his chin into his palm. "You know, outpacing the Death Eaters, the Dark Lord, _and _the Boy Who Lived seemed doable—dangerous, but doable. _Now_ I think you just might be overestimating our combined abilities."

"Here." Andromeda, oblivious to the argument, came back in on rushed footfalls. She pressed a coin into Hermione's hand, not Wizarding currency, but something large, worn and Old World, Roman, perhaps? "I've spelled it with a—"

"Protean Charm?" Hermione nodded. "I'm familiar, I've done this myself."

"Then you already know how it works. Once I'm positive the safe house is secure, I'll send you the location via the coin."

"I'm still not sure this is the best—"

"Please!" Andromeda clamped both of her hands around one of the younger witch's and met her gaze, just as unflinching as when she'd looked at Fenrir a few minutes earlier. "I've already lost my daughter. I've lost my son-in-law. I _can't_ bear to lose Teddy, too. _Please!"_

Hermione felt the burn of tears welling up in her own eyes in response to Andromeda Tonks' pleading. She ignored the softly hissed curse that tumbled from Fenrir's lips. How hard a request this must be for her, Hermione couldn't even imagine. "Okay, we'll take him with us. But if anything happens to you, if you so much as _think_ someone is following you, use the coin. Anything that compromises your safety, or makes you have to change plans, let us the_ moment_ you're able."

"I swear it."

* * *

"I can't believe she talked us into this," Fenrir said as they reached the area the other werewolf's howl had indicated.

If not for Hermione's beaded bag with its extension charm of fuck-all, they'd have had to carry so much extra. Woods were not easy traveling with a child so small, and the witch and werewolf took turns carrying him. Teddy slept most of the way, the only thing visible above the dark material of the sling was his tuft of turquoise hair. They'd stopped a few times to feed and change him, but they were both determined to not actually stop for themselves until they were setting camp for the night.

"I can't believe you didn't fight harder."

Fenrir shrugged, about to explain himself when a small building came into view in the distance. There was a heavy scent of water here, and Hermione didn't need a werewolf's sense of smell to know that it would cloud any attempt to track by scent. The treeline cleared to reveal the narrow shore of a lake. A few meters out, atop a small embankment was a squat, rectangular building. Perhaps it had been a guardhouse to a larger property at one time, but now it was simply . . . there. The door was intact and the windows boarded.

His silence continued as he led her through the shallow water and up to the guardhouse. He didn't have to tell her, she already knew whoever'd been here had moved on—probably at first light, if not immediately after they'd answered Fenrir's howl. They were all thinking the same thing. That to stay alive meant needing to stay on the move, even if this location seemed an ideal hideout for a few days.

With Teddy in tow, that just might have to be the case for them.

He pried open the door, cautioning her to stay back as he drew his wand and stepped in ahead of her and Teddy. Hermione's entire body was tensed as she waited for word from him, her own wand drawn and her free arm tight around the slumbering baby. She was exhausted, but she knew she'd never get a wink of sleep unless she felt they were as safe as they could realistically make themselves.

"Clear."

Some of the tightness in her shoulders and upper back eased as she lowered her wand. Holding Teddy close as she could manage, sling or no sling, she stepped inside.

She was surprised to find the place, while visibly broken down and having seen much better days, was not in_ truly_ deplorable condition. They possibly _could_ make due here for a few days just as she'd thought, especially with a charm or two to straighten it out, meanwhile the outside would still appear as though no one had set foot here in decades.

"This will work," he said, nodding, as though reading her thoughts—managing Teddy's care would be much easier if they were someplace stationary as they waited for word from Andromeda.

"I think so, too. We should get to work clearing this place up so we can all get some rest."

Fenrir nodded once more, looking about as the one-floor house straightened and cleaned itself up under the combined sway of their magic. They transfigured the totally unnecessary desk left behind into a crib. The cots and bedding—once Hermione withdrew them from her bag and re-enlarged them—Fenrir set up on either side of the crib while the witch changed and fed the baby one more time before settling him down for the night.

Or, well, what she hoped was for the night; she was fully cognizant that a lot of infants weren't able to sleep straight through from bedtime to morning.

After they were settled in for the night, the guardhouse warded and charmed to the teeth, Hermione felt herself drifting off. Maybe she'd finally get a good night's sleep for the first time in God only knew how long.

That was until Fenrir's voice split the darkness. "I never answered you earlier."

Her brow furrowed as she darted her gaze about the shadowed beams of the ceiling. "About what?"

"Why I didn't fight harder about taking the baby with us."

"Oh." She twiddled her fingers over the top of her stomach, a terrible feeling in midsection—cold and clawing—that she wouldn't like where this was going. "That hadn't actually been a question."

"No, I know, but still, there _was_ a response for it. I just . . . I suppose I was grateful for the distraction of finding this place so that I didn't have to say it right then."

The air felt very still then, like a thing that had weight where it pressed to Hermione's skin. "Say it now."

There was a sound of Fenrir Greyback forcing a gulp down his throat in that still, silent, weighty darkness before he answered, "I picked it up from his scent the moment she brought him into the room. This baby's going to grow up a werewolf."


End file.
